


velveteen

by BlushingKatya (OrangeVanilla)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 89-91, F/F, Phone Sex, centered somewhere around the end of the cold war, landline phone sex no less, siberian katya <3, smut in later chapters, very specific i know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-06 23:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18861016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeVanilla/pseuds/BlushingKatya
Summary: There’s a shadow behind the glass in the door, moving quick, like a minnow. The doorknob twists, a wall of warmth seeps out from beyond the threshold. And there, red cheeked and wide eyed, stands Katya. Her hair is long and straw coloured, in two long braids that pass over her shoulders from beneath her furry hat. Violet’s greeting gets lost in a puff of air.-Violet finds warmth in Siberia





	1. cranberry ice

**Author's Note:**

> y'know, that gay shit. i'm back with more vatya! there will be more to come from this! probably two more, but maybe three if i'm especially evoked to write beyond that. you know how it is with my brain lmao. i bounced this idea around in my brain for a while, and here she is. most of my fics come to me from inspiration to write about katya, and this one was especially warm.  
> (and yes, this chapter title is honoring my favourite candle scent. all about that winter warmth)

The bite of the wind in Siberia really isn’t something Violet could have prepared for in any capacity. Yes, it’s got a reputation for being freezing cold, but words don’t come close to the bone deep chill in the air, even when she’s bunkered down in the back of a car under two heavy sweaters. The window is open a crack. Her shudder goes unnoticed. 

Her gloves render her useless, can’t open the vinyl folder full of papers when it tries to slip from her grasp every other second. Her brain’s too fuzzed from travelling to take anything in, anyway. It gives her a chance to look out of the window at white on white. 

The chauffer is mercifully quiet, too occupied with navigating the twisty mountain road to bother with chatting about her destination. It’s much better than Italy was last month, where she was cursed with the world’s most talkative driver for over two weeks. Russia is by no means serene, but the people know when to let the air settle. 

She checks her scrap of note paper again, full to the brim with instructions should she need it. Not that she can really navigate Cyrillic, but she can at least offer the paper to her driver. She can’t see herself leaving the lodge much more than a few walks, so she’ll be able to tuck her directions into her leather bag and forget about them for a while. 

According to the opposite side of her paper, she’ll be staying with Katya for the duration of the month, with a last name that is daunting to think of. Katya Z. Raja mentioned she’s nice, very warming. Her little bed and breakfast is fully booked for the foreseeable future, but they’ve pulled a few favours, forked out some extra cash. 

If it wasn’t for the last minute drop out, she would’ve been designing in the less than ideal home of Vaska, in the heart of Moscow. Not that there’s anything wrong with Moscow, but Violet’s been craving the quiet of a more subdued area, just this once. 

The car pulls to a slow stop outside a blanketed building, she clicks her seatbelt undone and clicks her back. “Thank you so much,” she says as she hands over a fistful of rubles, glancing between her directions and the snow-capped sign beside the wooden stairs. Красный бархат Гостевой дом, in patiently painted letters, then in Aquaria’s shakily copied scrawl. Home for a while. 

She collects her bags from the trunk once she’s slipped her instructions away in the pocket of her thick wool coat, slinging two bags over her shoulders and rolling the other two cases behind her, thunking up the steps in protest. She drops one to knock, pulling her knit hat further over her ears. Her watch is too deep under layers of sleeve to gauge the time, but it’s getting dusky. 

There’s a shadow behind the glass in the door, moving quick, like a minnow. The doorknob twists, a wall of warmth seeps out from beyond the threshold. And there, red cheeked and wide eyed, stands Katya. Her hair is long and straw coloured, in two long braids that pass over her shoulders from beneath her furry hat. Violet’s greeting gets lost in a puff of air.

“Oh, you must be frozen,” Katya tuts, taking Violet’s bags from her and eyeing over the cases. “You pulled those up yourself? You should call me! What am I here for?”

She’s tiny, like a little doll under layers of shawls and skirts and sweaters, but she handles Violet’s belongings like they weigh nothing. Her black mittens are on the wrong hands, rendering her thumbs mostly useless, but it doesn’t stop her from flitting back to tackle Violet’s big case. “It’s alright, I’ve got them. Thank you,” Violet says as she pulls one up and over the lip in the door, then the other. “I’m Violet, Raja’s friend. You must be-”

“Katya, so good to meet you! Did you travel well?” Katya fusses, pushing the door closed with both hands and pulling her mittens off. Her hands are pink. Her accent makes Violet’s nose tight at the bridge, unlike anyone else she’s spoken to in her handful of hours in Russia. She clears her throat, pulling at her own gloves until they slide off. 

“Yeah, everything’s been smooth. This place is so sweet, you’ve done a beautiful job,” Violet smiles, taking the time to appreciate the roaring fire in the hearth, the sweet carved figurines placed neatly along the mantle. She touches over a neat wooden bear, glancing up at the cuckoo clock above her. It’s almost nine. She has no idea how that translates to Atlanta hours, but she doesn’t feel very tired. “Oh, god. I said I’d be here earlier, didn’t I? There was a mix up with transport, I’m sorry if you’ve had to wait.”

“No worrying, things happen. You are here now! Come, your room will be warmed for you by now,” Katya beams, pulling her cossack hat off and setting it behind the little mahogany desk. She picks one bag up, eyeing the hard bodied case at Violet’s feet. “Can I help with your things, please?”

Violet laughs softly, nodding and grabbing the rest of her things, following Katya’s lead through the hallway. The walls are full to the brim, red and gold wallpaper mostly hidden beneath framed paintings and posters and embroidery hoops. There’s a picture of a handsome little group of dogs, all piled on top of each other, presumably their names looped beneath them. This feels more like a home than a business.

Katya produces a key from one of her many pockets, clicking the door open and motioning for Violet to head in first. “There are more blankets in the cupboards, if you would like them. I never know how many is too many,” she says softly, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. She seems tired, no matter how sweet her tone is. Violet’s probably kept her up waiting for her arrival. 

“Oh, wow,” Violet gasps quietly, setting her baggage down and taking the rest from Katya’s cold hands, keeping them flush with the oak panelled walls. The room is small, but cosy beyond what she’d imagined, full to the brim with colour. A small desk sits on birch logs in the corner beside a door to a balcony, half full of books and writing supplies. The walls, again, are crammed with life; squares of fabric sewn into pockets, strips of brightly coloured cloth bundled together, little quilted pillows, all strung together with ribbon and hung neatly around the room. 

The bed is piled full of warmth, blankets and throws and a mountain of plump, silk pillows, right next to a little radiator. There’s a worn emerald armchair in the furthest corner, equally full of furs and comfort. Even the carpet beneath her boots is fluffy and inviting. No wonder Raja spoke so highly of Katya’s little corner of the country. 

“This is beautiful, Katya. Thank you for letting me stay here, this will be perfect,” she breathes, pushing her coat off her shoulders and resting it over her suitcase, not ready to break the flow of the room just yet. Katya beams, squeezing her shoulder and knocking twice on the radiator to make sure it’s warm. “Is there anything I need to do? Checking in, stuff like that?”

“Oh, leave that for the morning. You’ve been travelling! Let me make you tea, warm you up for a good night’s rest,” she insists, offering the room key to Violet before stepping back. She’s in just a pair of socks, making little sound in comparison to the quiet creak of protest against Violet’s boots. She’ll chalk it up to the house being more familiar with Katya. “Do you have preferences? Milk, cream, sugar?”

“You don’t have to do that for me,” Violet says as she eases her boots off, smiling when Katya squints at her in disapproval. “I’ll take it however, but I like milk. Will you be joining me?”

“I will. Get yourself settled, get off your feet. I’ll be back in a moment,” Katya assures her, shooing her in the direction of the armchair and exiting in a fluid motion. Violet does as she’s been told, taking a moment to stroke over the thick fur strewn over the back of the chair before collapsing in it, rubbing her socked feet against the thick rug to warm up some more.

She wrestles her coat off, along with one of her three sweaters. For someone who’s walking around in enough layers to dress a small family, Katya keeps her home toasty warm. It feels vastly safe, sitting and looking around, taking it all in. There’s a nightstand beside the bed, with a small lamp and a curly-corded landline sitting beside each other. She’ll call Raja in the morning, or the afternoon. No point in it now, not when she used the payphone outside the airport to listen to a minute of dialling. 

It’s easy enough to drift off to the quiet thrum of Katya’s home, the steady _tink, tink, tink_ of a teaspoon in the other room just distant enough to not be the usual headache. Violet sinks further into the armchair, turning to rest her face against the soft throw. She could fall asleep like this, in the dim orange glow from the little ceiling lamps, fully clothed and half made up. 

“Would you like cake?” Katya’s hushed voice comes from the door, pulling Violet from her lazy pool of thoughts. Regardless of her answer, cake sits in the centre of the tray she’s setting on the desk, deep crimson with dazzling white cream through the centre. “You should eat. Rather than drinking tea on an empty stomach. Have you eaten much today?”

Katya’s been pushing a knife through the cake through her talking, easing the slice onto a plate and setting it on the side table with a fork, crossing the room again to pick up a large mug of tea and pressing it between Violet’s palms. “Thank you, again. I ate a good breakfast, but that’s about it,” she says after taking a sip, sighing in contempt. It’s good, warming to the core. “This is perfect. Does everyone get this welcome, or am I lucky?” 

“Well, I can’t give away that kind of secret,” Katya hums, settling into the chair at the desk and huffing as she leans back into it. She adds a teaspoon of sugar to her own cup, stirring a few times with her chin resting in her palm. “My good reputation will be hurting. Tell me about you! Raja has spoken well of you!”

Violet chances a corner of cake, piercing more with her fork as she swallows. It’s good, better than Kim’s birthday cake that is still a topic of conversation on slow work days. “Oh god, I’m not as interesting as I sound. Too busy working,” she hums, leaning back and watching Katya piling two teaspoons of sugar into her tea, averts her gaze at three. “I do a lot of travelling for Gemini, mainly. And I work with Fabricate on articles about the things I do. It’s like, really not that interesting.”

Katya sets her teaspoon down (after at least another spoonful and a lot more stirring), waving her hand as she takes a long drink. “No! That is interesting! Travels are good, important for rounding. A well-travelled woman is one to listen to,” she insists, setting the lid on her pot of sugar. Violet smiles, glad of the affirmation. “Have you been to Russia before? Plenty of character.”

“This is my first time, actually,” Violet confesses, curling a leg to rest her left foot under her. She delights in how Katya wiggles her thick blonde brows at the news. “I just felt like Siberia is really overlooked. Everyone who comes to Russia goes to Moscow, you know? And no one’s talking about the good right now. So why not?”

The lists of why’s and why not’s are tucked at the bottom of her desk at home. In truth, the why not’s kind of outweighed, but Violet had already started pleading her case to Raja before she admitted to herself that ‘The Cold War’ is a pretty big point against her exploration of Soviet fashion. Enough to be put on the list three more times. Not only is the relationship between America and Russia stale, but allegedly the fashion is, too. 

Thank god she’s in the one corner of the country with a fashionable woman. She’ll have to whip her Polaroid out, if Katya’s wardrobe is as delicious as Raja has promised. She hopes to see the much discussed ivory mink coat, if she still has it. 

The teapot is emptied through their talking, replaced with vodka that Katya insists is a necessity. She’s lucky, she insists, that she has a business that hasn’t been hurt, that she’s had money tucked away from family to keep her from fretting too much. “People find me as a gate, yes?” she hums, moved to sit at the edge of the bed upon her return. Violet’s joined her, sprawled over the cushions and basking in the close comfort of the room. “Like you, people like you. Not usual for winter, though. I am glad for the company.” 

“Do you get many Americans?” Violet asks, holding her glass out for Katya to top her up again. It’s smooth, warming. Nothing like the paint stripping qualities of vodkas she’s tried at home. Katya’s hands shake as she pours more for herself. “I’m sure the place would be crawling if they knew about you back home. You’re the first Russian woman I’ve really met.”

Katya laughs sharply, smacking Violet’s calf and sipping from her glass. Her lids are heavy, charcoaled. She blinks slow and lazy. Violet feels bad for keeping her awake for so long. “I have been told I am good introducing. Like a, uh… oh, Raja said it so well,” she grunts, waving her hand around for inspiration. “Oh, I don’t know. Whatever. I am nice for Americans.”

“Palatable?” Violet offers, smiling as Katya mulls it over. “I’d consider you palatable. I love what you’re wearing. Where did you get that skirt?”

“I made it!” Katya beams, screwing the lid on the bottle in her hand once she’s drained it. Her cheeks are full of colour, her nose flushed pink. Violet moves forward, running a hand over the thick burgundy wool. “I make most of my clothes. Idle hands, yes? Good to be busy.”

“You’re very talented,” Violet says softly, touching over the little black tassels at the edge of her shawl, the warm brushed cotton of the garment. The silver rosary around her neck glints when she moves. “Where do you get the fabrics? I’d love to make a piece with something from here.”

Katya gazes over her slowly, pulling her plush bottom lip between her starlight teeth. She sways, just a little, leaning her shoulder against the wall. “Guests. People who like me, nice people. Heartful. Fabric is good gift. I have many good gifts. People are so kind,” she says softly, resting her ice cold hand over Violet’s own wandering one. “There is good here. I know you will find it. I find fabric for you, plenty is waiting for pattern. What are you making?”

Violet turns her hand over, holding Katya’s hand in hers and squeezing lightly. “I’m not sure yet. I wanna take my time thinking about it. Take in the sights,” she decides, running her thumb over Katya’s pink knuckles. “I’ll wait to see more of your wardrobe. Raja says it’s a wonder.”

Katya laughs, setting the bottle down in favour of grasping Violet’s hand in both of her own. She’s going to give Katya a good pair of gloves before she leaves. She’s got some wool lined leather ones in one of her cases, she’ll make a point of wrapping them. 

“Raja is too generous! I will show you around tomorrow, but you rest now. I keep you past midnight, look! Criminal!” Katya shakes her head, lifting Violet’s hand to kiss over her knuckles. “You sleep well, I make breakfast from seven. Oh! You call if you need anything!”

She slides off the bed, catching the glass between her hand and the mattress when it rolls off behind her. She scolds it in her mother tongue, setting it on the nightstand and straightening the landline, peering over the cream buttons. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s so cosy,” Violet tries to assure her, but still Katya grabs a pen and paper from the desk, looping out numbers. 

“One three one, that is me,” Katya signs her name as she finishes, her pronunciation closer to ‘wan tree wan’. It’s sweet. She’s great at English, Violet wasn’t expecting half a sentence, really. “Call for anything. I am here. If I do not, I will be in kitchen or bed. Kitchen is over the hall, bed is-…”

Katya starts mapping things out in the air, her brows furrow as she tries to mentally navigate her own home. “I’ll sleep like a log, but thank you so much. I’ll call if I do need anything,” Violet promises, which seems to put Katya’s directional woes to bed. “You sleep. Go, take care,” she smiles, taking Katya’s hand from the air and kissing it. 

“Goodnight, Miss Violet. I’ll call you for breakfast,”

“Goodnight, Katya. Thank you.”

Katya leaves after a few moments of serene quiet, their hands parted by the space. She clicks the lights out once Violet’s got the one on the nightstand figured out, closing the heavy door without much of a struggle. 

Violet takes the forgotten bottle of vodka and sets it on the desk, two empty glasses joining it shortly after. She considers sleeping in her current attire, peeling her suitcase open when she really weighs it up. Her pair of thick flannel pyjamas wait for her, close and warm when she changes into them, though not too hot that she can’t make the most of Katya’s offerings. 

Crawling under the blankets leaves her with a sense of safety, akin to how her Aunt Fran dressed the spare bed in goose down duvets and heavy throws. It’s like her own little nest. She clicks the light out, settling her face against the plumped pillows and holding one in her arms to drift off.


	2. cherries on snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet turns to face her, tucking strands of hair back into her neat braids where they’ve come astray, warm honey blonde. Her lipstick has worn at the middle of her mouth, sweet pink bleeding from deep red. Katya rests a hand over her breast, slides it up to her shoulder, her thumb resting at Violet’s collarbone. 
> 
> “Katya,” she breathes, ghosting a hand over her hip and resting it when Katya doesn’t pull away. “I want to kiss you.”

The room is crisp when Violet wakes, bathed in white from beyond the curtains. It’s snowed again, she thinks, or maybe it’s just brighter in the sunlight. She sinks further under the blankets, dozing in and out to the sound of dishes clattering, the hum of conversation. The pillow in her grip has slid down between the mattress and the wall, she eases it out with stiff fingers. Thank god for the radiator. 

She slides from under the weight of comfort, drawing the curtains and tucking her hair behind her ears. The branches of the trees beyond the window are heavy, weighted by snowfall. Her breath fogs the glass when she gets close enough, blocking her view of a heavy looking ornament at the bottom of the garden, a hazy figure of red and blue. 

It’s just gone eight, she dresses swiftly when the chill in the air catches up with her. The little heater can only do so much good when it’s battling with this kind of cold. No wonder Katya has so many layers of warmth on her – it saves the wait. There’s a scratching at the door by the time she pulls her socks on, opening it to find a large brown cat barrelling into her legs, wailing like a siren. 

“Hey now, what?” Violet coos, kneeling to scratch between the cat’s ears and combing through its thick fur with her nails. It seems sated by her attention, meowing every time her hand leaves for more than a few seconds, tail swishing against the doorframe at it rubs its face against Violet’s knee. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? What’s with the heartache?”

A swell of clinking dishes emerges from behind the blue door across the hall, the patter of more creatures. Violet hears Katya before she looks up to see her, dressed in warm jewel tones and warning a long, creamy dog, a thick collection of fabric toys in its mouth. 

“Oh, Violet, I am so sorry! Did Dasha wake you? Dasha!” Katya turns her warning to the cat, the floorboards creak under her boots when she picks the once again yelling cat up. She holds Dasha like a baby, cradling her in layers of shawls and speaking to her tenderly. “Go back to rest, I can call you if you would like. Breakfast is plenty. That dress is beautiful.”

Violet straightens out her cable knit as she stands, pulling brown fur from the forest green wool despite her immediate petting of Dasha’s belly. “Thank you. I was already awake, don’t worry about me. I should be thanking her for hurrying me up,” she smiles, bending to fuss the dog when she feels it nosing at her hip. “Hi! Hello, aren’t you handsome?”

Dasha twists in Katya’s arms, only satisfied when she’s let down and allowed back into the kitchen. “You are very popular. This is Maxim, he’s very sweet. My sweet man,” Katya speaks with a fond look in her features, she doesn’t have to bend to pet his silky ears. Violet thinks maybe that’s the idea behind getting such a tall dog. “Yes, he is getting old. He knows good heart when he finds one. Come, breakfast. What do you want?”

“I’ll take anything. What are you having?” Violet asks, closing the door to her room when she’s sure Maxim’s tail won’t get caught, following Katya’s lead into the kitchen. She manages a few ‘good morning’s to the couple sat at the big wooden table, glad of the dog next to her that seems eager to push her after Katya. Her Russian isn’t dazzling, but it gets the job done, and they return to their own bubble, leaving Violet to hers. 

Katya’s already busy at the stove, pushing a curious tabby cat away from the pan before setting a couple of sausages in it to sit. “I like eggs, yes? Omelette. You eat meat?” she asks, lifting the tabby and setting it on the floor to complain at her feet with Dasha. Maxim has settled in a basket in the corner of the kitchen, looking more than content with sleeping more of the morning away. “I know a lot of people do not. Raja tells me a lot of people in your company are going towards that. Oh, there is bread on the table, help yourself. You take butter?”

Violet laughs at the stockpiling of questions, pulling a chair out from the table and watching Katya flit around. “I eat meat, thank you. Is this the bread Raja told me about? She said it’s beautiful,” she glances at the loaf in the centre of the table, a few slices waiting to be taken. Violet steals one, aware of the quiet from the man and woman across the table upon her speaking. Raja’s told her it’s a reasonably common occurrence from most other than Katya. 

She tries a bite before Katya can insist on butter, sees how Katya watches from the corner of her eye as she rummages through her cupboards. “Good! I do not understand it. Yes, that is my black bread. It is good with butter, and most other things. If I had salmon, I would insist,” she talks into the butter dish, beaming when she sees Violet’s devoured half of the slice in her hand. “You like?”

The tabby cat waddles to sit against Violet’s ankle, collapsing on its side in expectance of attention. She can’t deny him a few rubs, not after everyone else has received. “I love. Even better than I expected,” she says as she twists to slather butter over the remaining half, indulging. “You make it here? You must be so busy.”

“I like being busy. It keeps me from thinking too hard.” Katya says kindly, leaving Violet savouring her flavourful rye bread to return to making breakfast. 

They talk through eating, Katya makes her way through her omelette and then three slices of bread. Violet’s glad of how much Katya likes to talk about most anything, it makes her almost relieved she has a viable reason to be asking. Her cassette recorder is buried beneath her hand sewing kit in her case, she insists she’ll take note of something or other once she’s settled for a few days. 

She has a lot of money from old family, inheritance and charitability mostly. Her business is her pride and joy, something which definitely echoes through the rooms. “It is difficult,” she says between hushing who has now identified as Anatoly (or Toly, _Toly, Toly, Toly_ as she lifts him from his attempt to eat her skirt). He meows for bread, kneading Katya’s lap once he’s sated. “Owning anything now is frightening. I am avoiding news. But I am so happy, I have something to be proud of. I am doing well for myself.”

“Your home is beautiful. I feel lucky to stay here,” Violet confesses, laughing softly when Katya flicks a hand in dismissal, her eyes shining all the same. Her cheeks are pink in the warmth of the kitchen, her fingers are pale and long, not the speckled pink of cold they were last night. “I do! You really have made a home, Katya. Last night was the best sleep I’ve had in years, I feel very safe.”

“That is very important to me. Thank you,” Katya says very seriously, reaching across to squeeze Violet’s hand in thanks. “You are very kind. You are always welcome here, this is a home to you now, if you need it. Friends are the world to me, I would be nothing without them, I would be dead.”

She speaks of her friends through her cleaning of the kitchen, refusing every offer Violet makes to help. She’s besotted with Sasha and Oksana from the farm at the top of the hill, their herd of sheep and pigs and cows, less so with the chickens, even if they are the source of the eggs from the morning. Their dog is nowhere near Katya’s good books, not since he bit Maxim’s leg. 

Katya’s list of friends is astonishing when she really gets into it. She knows people very personally, her butcher and her green grocer and her baker, around fifteen names from the marketplace Violet had passed through on her way here. Not just them, but their families; wives and husbands and children, parents. She has a book full of birthdays and anniversaries, insists Violet should – or rather, _will_ see it, rattling off upcoming dates while she feeds any leftover sausage to the dog. 

Violet feels like crying every few minutes. Katya is otherworldly in her gentleness. “You will meet people, I am sure. Draga will be here tomorrow with milk and eggs, but I am sure her sisters will come next week when they hear about you,” she speaks into Maxim’s fur, her own head bobbling up and down as he chews happily on scraps from the pan. 

He’s the last of five, Katya had whispered before getting too upset about it. She worries he’ll be gone before the winter is over, already pushing fourteen. He seems very happy, though, well loved. The cats are old barn kittens, gifts from Oksana two years running, good for catching mice. Dasha and Toly seem the type to disagree with that, vastly more interested in laying around on the floor and pawing at each other’s tails, an off colour yin and yang. 

Violet is welcomed to Katya’s area of her home after the clock strikes eleven, she insists that Violet should use her own bathroom (which she does immediately, it’s been over twelve hours since she last peed and it’s _dark_ when she dares to look) and unlocks her little office. 

“I promised Raja you would have a nice place for sewing. It should be okay for you, but I can move things around if you need more space,” Katya offers while proceeding to move things around, heaving a box from beside the table and setting it down amongst a collection of briefcases and baskets full of artificial flowers. “Go, sit! You have a Singer at home, yes?”

Violet settles into the worn velvet fainting couch, stroking Max’s ears when he follows them in and rests his head in her lap. “Yeah, I have a Singer. I do a lot of my sewing by hand, though, when I’m travelling. You don’t need to worry,” she insists, though Katya’s already lifting a sewing machine from the cupboard she’s been peering into, setting it on the desk. It’s one of the older models, the ones that Raja brags about having five of in her home studio. “Oh, Katya. You don’t need to let me use your machine, I can manage with my kit.”

“Oh, hush. It is good machine, important to keep using it or it will rust and I will be out of clothes forever. You are doing good for me,” Katya tuts, pulling a basket full of needles and thread from the cupboard and placing it beside the Singer, collapsing into the worn wicker chair once she’s set a pin cushion out. “You are welcome to my fabrics. I have so many. I’m beginning to lose track of what I have used already.”

She gestures towards the dresser, Violet doesn’t dare touch until she’s alone and ready to design something. She won’t be for a week or so, at least. She wants to sink her teeth into Katya.

Figuratively. 

“I hope you know I’ll buy you more. I’ll get some sent over, from New York. And I have miles of chiffon from Paris, and silk. Something for summer,” Violet insists, flapping a hand at Katya when she starts looking like she might protest. “Let me give you something in return! Please. I wanna give you something nice, since you’ve already been so good to me.”

It’s something Katya clearly struggles with, but over the first week of Violet’s stay she accepts a healthy pile of offerings from Violet’s moving haberdashery. Violet quickly learns she’ll only take colours, nothing paler than a yellow or light grey, which is only a little disheartening to her thoughts of what Katya would look like in a wedding gown. She’s sketched out five, her notebook quickly filling up with musings of Katya, her words and her actions and her tender fussing. 

It does feel like a home, Violet finds. She feels almost domestic, settling at her desk in the crisp morning light in her pyjamas, two of Katya’s blankets wrapped around her shoulders. The morning Sasha and Oksana are due to arrive (which is definite; Katya had received a call a few hours after Draga had left from one of her curious sisters), Violet leaves the door on the latch pre-emptively, welcoming Toya when he pushes his way in with his face. 

She’s desperate to start sewing, won’t allow herself until she knows Katya’s body type, an approximation of her measurements. She hasn’t brought herself to ask yet. It gives her something to work up to, amidst writing drafts of articles about Siberia that are all swiftly turning into essays about Katya’s life. 

It’s borderline embarrassing, but not altogether stupid. Katya’s kindness is one thing, but the linger of her gaze is something that Violet can’t brush off as just her nature, the straying touches in the late evening after supper. Violet had the pleasure last night of helping Katya braid her long blonde hair, after she’d knocked her bedroom door with her soaking hair piled up into a towel, still in her usual layers.

Violet had hoped she’d see Katya in some kind of nightwear when she heard the bath filling, locking up the office. No such luck. 

Their breakfast routine has changed, largely around how much they both like to talk. This morning is no exception, not even with Toly purring happily, warming her feet. Katya knocks thrice at the door, peeping her head in and holding a china cup and saucer up. “Good morning,” she greets, stepping beyond the doorframe and setting Violet’s tea on the desk, a good distance away from her growing pile of papers. “So here he is, hm. Escaping for the sweet life, no more work.”

“He swore to me you allowed it,” Violet teases, resting her chin in her palm and watching Katya’s fingertips linger over the bedframe, the nightstand. “Thank you for the tea. How’s the morning going?”

Katya sits at the edge of Violet’s unmade bed, pulling the blankets over her lap. Her braids have stayed in overnight, still long over her shoulders. “It is well. Juliette has left,” she divulges, they share a smile. It’s cruel, but Katya’s Parisian guest has been one to stay at the table for hours at a time, and Violet’s feeling selfish. “She bought flowers, how sweet of her. I do feel evil, may God forgive me, but I am so glad I do not have to listen to her speak about her sons again.”

Violet laughs, taking a sip of her tea and closing her notebook. “I’m sure God will understand. He has to listen to her too,” she offers, quirking a brow when Katya purses her lips in thought, her cheeks hollowing. “He’s forgiving. You have a good heart, let yourself be unenthused by someone. What time will Sasha and Oksana be here?”

Her distraction works, Katya clasps her hands together in her lap. “Midday, Oksana said. They are always early, or late. But I will make things ready for eleven,” she affirms, standing and making the bed, automatic to her from what Violet has experienced. Katya likes to home make, always finding something to adjust or wipe or straighten out. Her cushions are plumped beyond show home standards. “Breakfast is waiting. I will keep it hot for you. Toly, come.”

She scoops Anatoly up before he can protest, carrying him out of the room so he can’t swish around Violet’s ankles as she dresses. And he would climb her like a tree, if given the opportunity. He’s as curious as Dasha, tenfold. 

Violet finishes her cup of tea while it’s still warm, glancing through the wardrobe three times over before settling with a black silk blouse and a thick red pencil skirt, pairing them with her most expensive black stockings and her little leather ankle boots. 

She feels overdressed for breakfast, but she’d rather eat Russian pancakes in her blouse than panic to get dressed before Katya’s friends arrive. Her hair is still holding some kind of curl at the ends, leaving her satisfied enough to join Katya in the kitchen, glad of the blanketing warmth of the room.

Katya does her makeup at the table after eating well, the first time Violet’s seen her anything aside from barefaced. “If they arrive early, they can wait an hour in the snow,” she says into her mirror, smudging out black eyeshadow with the side of her middle fingertip, just enough to line her stark blue eyes. “I am not moving for them anymore, Violet, I need to be holding ground. I do not arrive hours early to them.”

They both know Katya wouldn’t let anyone wait for more than a handful of minutes, but Violet still nods along with her, glad to be allocated the task of brushing out Maxim’s fur. He’s wearing a sweet red collar, bright and merry against the creamy white of his body. There’s no point in trying to wrestle the cats into brushing; they’re both too agile and impatient, Katya insists. 

Lucky for Katya’s pride, the Velour sisters arrive late. Very late, to the point where Katya has agreed to brushing the cats just to give herself something to do, complaining about getting brown and orange fur over one of her favourite outfits. And what an outfit it is; a little bell shaped floral skirt that comes just to her knees, her red lace stockings under it, her thick red sweater cinched at her waist with a thick leather belt. 

This is the most Violet’s seen of her body. She feels like a voyeur, watching Katya touch her burgundy lipstick up in the hallway mirror before unlocking the door. 

It’s hard not to feel part of a family, sitting around the kitchen table and chatting with Katya’s friends, so Violet doesn’t bother. She settles into the warmth it leaves in her bones, chats to Sasha about her work back in America, promises she’ll dig out some of the best articles she’s penned and give them to her when they return. 

Sasha is charming, strong shoulders and work calloused hands that grasp to show she’s paying close attention when Violet talks. Oksana is sharp witted and full of cheek, sneaks fruit to Maxim when he noses at the table, stabs at the air with her fingers when she complains about how the new sheepdog is as energised as their pregnant cow Liska. 

Katya leaves the table frequently, insistent they stay for dinner, then for toasting their journey, and Violet’s health, and Maxim’s, her own. Her cooking is warming as always, serving as a valiant effort to stave off the effects of the vodka. Most of the pork from the fridge is gone by the end of the night, between the four of them and the animals, even with the butcher only having visited two days before. Sasha insists she’ll bring more eggs next week, promises extra milk after Katya fills their glasses up a fifth time, ‘za Rossiya!’, her lipstick print against her rim. 

The evening stretches and blurs, Violet leans against Katya’s shoulder as she switches to her mother tongue, resting her eyes and drifting to her smooth, husky tone. Their chairs are flush, Violet’s head swims when Katya links their fingers under the table, resting in her lap. 

It’s dark by the time they depart, Sasha squeezes Violet’s shoulders when they embrace, rubs her back and presses a kiss to her temple. “Thank you,” she says quietly, very sincere in her manner, fierce behind the eyes. “You take care. Take good care.”

“Don’t frighten the poor woman,” Oksana jabs as she takes her turn to envelope Violet, squeezing tightly and rubbing her sides vigorously, like a stick on a campfire. “I am glad you’ve found us here. I will not turn into my sister, but I am very glad. And I love your blouse.”

Maxim is long asleep, the cats are too full to follow when they leave the kitchen, Katya sways in the doorframe as they wave goodbye to Sasha and Oksana as they trudge up the dimly lit road. Her arm rests around Violet’s waist, holding her close until the sisters are out of sight, her turn to rest her head on a shoulder. “You are an angel,” Katya whispers, letting Violet close the door and lock it carefully. “They love you. Good. You have good heart, Violet.”

Violet turns to face her, tucking strands of hair back into her neat braids where they’ve come astray, warm honey blonde. Her lipstick has worn at the middle of her mouth, sweet pink bleeding from deep red. Katya rests a hand over her breast, slides it up to her shoulder, her thumb resting at Violet’s collarbone. “Katya,” she breathes, ghosting a hand over her hip and resting it when Katya doesn’t pull away. “I want to kiss you.”

Katya pushes up onto her tiptoes in her little buckled Oxfords, wrapping both her arms around Violet’s neck as she brings their lips together. Violet catches her at the waist, holding her close and letting Katya set the pace, slow and sweet and tentative. Her tongue is strong with spirit, hot and still so coy as she trails over Violet’s bottom lip, until Violet meets her in the middle. 

“It’s late,” Katya whispers against her mouth, sucking idly at Violet’s tongue before lowering herself back down, still holding onto her tightly. She sways again, glancing over Violet’s lips and back up at her eyes. “We should get to bed. I am going to cook in the morning, Violet, I am not sober.”

Violet nods, swallowing hard and letting go of Katya’s waist. Katya doesn’t respond in kind, blinking slow and dreamy as she strokes the back of Violet’s neck with her fingertips. “I’ll need to wash my makeup off. Can I use your bathroom?” Violet asks, laughing softly when Katya just nods, making no move to allow her. “You’re gonna keep me here all night?”

“I will think about it,” Katya hums, biting her bottom lip as she grins, her teeth gleam under the warm light of the hallway, snowdrops. Violet kisses the top of her head, stroking over her rose pink cheek. “You can go, I will allow. I must go to bed, Violet. You know where I will be if you need me, if I do not pick the phone up.”

Katya steps back slowly, runs her hands over Violet’s shoulders and down her arms, until their fingers link. Violet lets her lead the way down the small staircase to where her trio of rooms reside, stopping when Katya passes the yellow bathroom door. “I’ll see you soon,” she says softly, watching Katya swan to her bedroom door, pressing her back close against it. She’s straight out of one of those Disney movies, Sleeping Beauty in the woods. “You rest, busy lady.”

“Goodnight, Violet,” Katya purrs, opening the door and slipping out of sight, clicking it shut again so Violet doesn’t have the chance to see much more than a sliver of her bedroom. It’s probably for the best, the way her heart is hammering like hell. 

She cleans her face with no real urgency, her hands feel like they’re moving through molasses to rub slow, soapy circles. Katya’s bathroom is cool, it leaves her clinging to the sweet pink towel for warmth once she’s done drying her skin, her blouse not doing anything in the way of keeping her cosy. She runs her fingers over the dusty blue tiles, collecting stray droplets of water. 

She knows she won’t sleep, not for hours. Drinking always wakes her, leaves her restless and in the mood to burn her energy out through work, and the thought of Katya’s lips makes her all the more creative. She dresses into her thick brushed cotton pyjamas, wraps a fur around herself, and settles at the desk. 

It lasts maybe thirty minutes, sketching out a handful of designs that she thinks Katya might like, dresses full of colour and pattern, buildable. If there’s one thing she’s taken away from Katya’s wardrobe, it’s that she likes layers, thick wool and sturdy flannel, she makes them look graceful. 

There’s no real designing, though. Violet gets it, gives up when she searches through her notebook for any inkling of what Katya’s measurements might be. She’s not going to start sewing tonight, not with vodka in her belly and no real clue of what Katya’s body works like. 

She settles into bed once she’s switched to just the bedside lamp light, curling up under her small mountain of comfort, and closing her eyes, willing her thoughts to stop racing. She glances at the handset on the table, thinks about it for a good few seconds, and picks the phone up, dialling one three one and waiting with bated breath. 

The dialling tone crackles, she curls the wire around her finger, tenting her legs against the weight of covers. She can hear when the line changes before it misses a beat, pressing the receiver close to her ear when Katya’s breathing sounds through it. “Hmm,” it takes her a moment, there’s a clink of a glass. Violet hadn’t considered that Katya might have a private stash of vodka. “Da. Katya.”

“Hi,” Violet whispers, giggling when Katya huffs out a laugh, hearing how she relaxes, how the sheets move as she settles back down. She wonders if Katya sleeps in as many layers as she’s given Violet, or if she layers her nightwear like she does her daytime outfits. She can’t really imagine her without layers. “Did I wake you? It’s not important, if you were asleep.”

“I am waking,” Katya assures her, her words slide and melt through the phone. She’s been drinking more, Violet thinks, she can hear it. She wasn’t nearly so loose just an hour ago. “Missing you. I have not taken my lipstick off, Violet.”

Violet loves Katya’s insistence on saying her name. It sounds good in her mouth, smoky and charming, deep from her throat. “I need your measurements, Katya,” Violet says in place of anything lewd, chewing her bottom lip and rolling onto her side. “I’m going to start making something for you tomorrow. I want it to fit right.”

“Oh… that is too sweet, Violet,” Katya says softly, she sounds surprised. Which is fair, since Violet hasn’t mentioned anything about her desperation to make Katya a whole wardrobe’s worth of new clothes. “I can take them tomorrow. I am not exactly, yes? No close fitting.”

Violet nods, not really very sure of what she means, but she gets the general idea. “There’s no rush, honey. I just really want to make you something. Got a few ideas,” she hums, thinking through her sketches and rough details. It will definitely be red, she thinks. Katya and blood red is something too good to pass up on. “What are you wearing?”

The line crackles, one of them’s playing with the cable too much most likely, if not both. Maybe Katya’s lying just like her, dimly lit and coiling curls around her fingers, wrapped up warm. Or maybe she’s less covered in bed, bare legs against thick duvet, in a little lacy teddy. Violet aches. “What I am wearing?” Katya says back to her, a smile in her tone, teasing. “Violet. You scandal.”

“I’m curious,” Violet laughs softly, her cheeks warm as she lets go of the cord to palm herself through her pyjamas, regretting how fitted they are. “I can’t imagine you in less than three layers. I’m not sure you have a figure under those clothes.”

Katya gasps, scorned. “I have figure, Violet, all European women have good body. I will not tell you what I wear,” she retaliates, laughing when Violet whines. She’s lucky she isn’t right next to Katya, the airwaves between them save her dignity. “I am wearing a pink nightgown. And a yellow cardigan.”

Layers. Violet’s quietly smitten about it. “Stylish. I’d love a picture, Raja would die with inspiration for a nightwear collection,” she rolls onto her side again, resting the phone between her ear and the pillow. “Layered nightgowns. What-”

“Are you sure that is all the picture is for?” Katya purrs, sending tingles through Violet’s spine. She sinks her nails into her thigh, taking her hand away when she’s hard enough to live with the strain, not enough to need to deal with it immediately. “Just inspiring Raja? What are _you_ wearing?”

Violet snorts, pushing the covers back when she finds herself heating up, borderline uncomfortable. She still can’t quite imagine pushing that boundary in Katya’s home, not even dancing the line of dirty talking over the phone. It all feels very fine, very right. “I’m wearing pyjamas, they’re black and red. Fitted,” she says like it matters, like Katya’s going to get off about the darts in her button down pyjama shirt. “And I wouldn’t object to some photos for my own personal inspirations. If that’s something you would allow.”

Katya mulls it over, murmuring to herself in her own language, maybe only to keep Violet waiting, thinking. “I allow. Tonight, no. Later. My hair, Violet,” she sighs, mournful of the braids she’s undoubtedly taken out by now. Violet prays she can take a comb to it tomorrow, golden silk that reaches to her hip, almost. “You are welcome to personal picture, Violet. I would like that.”

The sheets move audibly, Katya sighs into the receiver, dreamy and content. Violet twitches, resting her hand at the waistband of her pyjamas, quaking in the cool of the room. “Are you touching yourself, Katya?” she whispers, closes her eyes tightly at how it comes out, mousy and tentative as she feels. 

“Yes, Violet,” Katya breathes in kind, hitches like she’s already on the brink. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s been touching herself this whole time. Violet’s thrumming, heat in her veins. “I’m touching my breasts. My hands are cold, god. My nipples are so hard.”

Violet groans, rolling onto her back and sinking her head into the pillows, moving the receiver back to rest against her ear when Katya’s breaths get faint. “Will you tease them for me, Katya? Just for me?” she asks, pushing her hand beyond the waistband of her pyjamas and wrapping her fingers around her dick, pumping languidly. She’s far more interested in the catch in Katya’s breath. “I wish I could get my tongue on them. Get them all nice and stiff.”

Katya makes a strained noise, Violet grips the handset, wetting her lips. “I’m- Violet, I want that,” she sounds too highly strung already, Violet imagines she probably sounds the same to Katya. She wishes she had a tangible vision to go off, an idea of how her waist dips, her breasts. It feels like a shot in the dark to think about Katya’s breasts. She thinks they’re petite, maybe, everything about Katya seems fairly small. “I want your mouth on me.”

Violet closes her eyes, shimmying her pyjama pants down when she thinks about the mess it’ll make if she doesn’t, scrambling to pop her shirt buttons open with one hand. “Is… are you wet, honey?” she manages after she’s pushed her shirt open, a shudder rolls through her when the air caresses her skin. Katya makes a noise that sounds like a yes, or at least an affirmation. “Touch yourself, nice and slow. Take your time, there’s a good girl.”

“Oh,” Katya sighs sweetly, when Violet thinks hard enough about it she convinces herself she can hear her movements beyond the steady fuzz of the line. She lets go of the phone when it’s settled, rolling her nipple between her fingers and hissing at the ache. Katya rambles for a while, smooth and content. Violet licks her palm, twitching her hips up into her hand. “I have been dreaming about you.”

Her breath pauses, the air stands still as Violet’s head swims. “Oh god,” she breathes, Katya’s laugh blends into a moan. “I’ve been dreaming about you, too. About what your figure is like, about moving here and making a life with you. God, I wanna eat your pussy so bad.”

Katya keens, Violet thinks about how her nails would scrape at her scalp, how she’d pull at her hair so gently. It’s been a good few months since Violet was last with a woman, like her world’s been building up for Katya’s entrance into it, charming and tender and honey sweet. How she’s expected to leave Russia, Violet doesn’t know. “I have dreamt of you inside me,” Katya pants, Violet nearly comes on the spot. “Your breasts, Violet, in your blouse today. I nearly died. I wanted to kiss them so badly.”

“I wanna kiss you again. I want everyone to know, I- god, Katya, your _knees_ ,” Violet sobs, squeezing the base of her length when she’s too close, desperate to time herself to Katya’s own peak. Her toes curl, she pants and waits to listen to Katya and her deathly quiet whimpers. “I wanna kiss you all over, I wanna touch you, Katya. Would you let me? Will you let me make you come?”

“Oh, oh Violet,” Katya gasps, letting out a shuddering breath and moaning close into the receiver. Violet huffs hard, strokes her dick at as even a pace as she can manage, her hands shaking as she listens to Katya mewl through an orgasm. “Are you close? I want to listen. Let me hear you.”

Her voice is breathy, dreamy, a summer breeze that leaves Violet tipping her hips down into the mattress, stroking quick and desperate over the tip of her length. “Yes, yes, god,” she pants, gripping the sheet with her left hand and settling into the rising heat in her belly. “Katya, I’m close. I’m gonna come, oh my god.”

“Do it for me,” Katya purrs, husky and more smug than she’s ever heard from her. The cat who got the cream. “Come, Violet, I want to listen to you coming for me. I will let you measure me, you can put your hands all over me. I like thinking of you looking at me, Violet, and touching me. You want to touch me, don’t you?”

Violet comes with Katya’s name on her tongue, whispering it over and over again as she rolls her hips into her fist, listening to Katya moaning sweetly. “You’re perfect,” she hums, melting against the mattress as she comes down from her orgasm, fluttering her eyes closed. She’ll have to find tissues somewhere, she can bathe tomorrow. “You’re so perfect, Katya. God, thank you.”

Katya laughs, the sheets move audibly, the line crackles. “Thank you very much for calling me, Violet,” she murmurs, sounding sated, almost cocksure as she settles. Violet could listen to her for hours like this, vibrant and rich. “I am looking forward to you measuring me tomorrow. I will see you in the morning, yes?”

“Uh huh, you’ll see me bright and early. Sleep well, honey,” Violet smiles, biting her bottom lip and listening to Katya breathe, can’t bear to hang up just yet. She thinks maybe she’s already sleeping until she hears the pull of blankets, a quiet yawn. “Are you warm?”

“Very warm, yes,” Katya says, clicking the light. Violet wonders if she’s been in the dark this whole time, for all she knows it’s a good possibility. “Are you warmed?”

“I will be, in a second. Need to clean up,” Violet blushes, reaching into the little cupboard in the nightstand and swiping a few tissues from the box atop the Bible. “I’m glad you’re warm. That’s nice.”

Katya giggles, bells in the wind. Violet’s ready to eat from the palm of her hand. “You get warmed, Violet, make me happy,” she scolds fondly, which prompts Violet to wipe at her chest haphazardly, dressing swiftly after. Her breath evens out when she’s back in her pyjamas, pulling the covers back over herself, a cocoon. “Are you cosy?”

“Yes, Katya. I’m very cosy.”

“That is nice.”

They share a laugh, Violet stifles a yawn as she tosses her collection of tissues in the little wastepaper bin beside her bed. “I hope you rest well, Katya,” she hums, twisting her fingers around the looping coils of the chord. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Violet. Sleep well, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for perusing! feel free to get chatty on my tumblr @blushingkatya. happy camping!


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